Makola (littlebuffalo) wrote in olympianthreads, @ 2015-01-11 19:17:00 |
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Makola didn't understand why they had to have more exams in just a few days. They just had exams. He hadn't done very well in them either, at least that was what people kept trying to tell him. In his view if he'd managed to answer all the questions that should be good enough. And now he had to do it all over again? It was nonsense. By the time he'd re-read the chapter in his book about antibodies (the one that still confused him most) his eyes were itching and his head was pounding and his muscles were stiff and twitching from being stuck in one position for so long. He got up off the floor (chairs were bad enough when sitting in a classroom or at mealtimes... he didn't see why everyone seemed to find them so necessary), and almost without thinking about it picked up his bow and went out into the cold air, heading towards the archery range. He shivered on the way over; he'd forgotten to put on shoes and his arms were bare to the chilly night breeze. He remembered the thing called 'winter' from last year. It had not been fun. He'd been eventually forced to wear long sleeves and pants that went right down to his ankles. It made him feel ridiculous. He hadn't quite been driven to that yet but he thought if it kept getting colder it wouldn't be long. At least it wasn't as cold as it was in Utah. He'd hated Utah. It had taken a lot of persuasion from his roommate for him to even leave his room, and he'd been covered in so many layers he could barely move his arms. It had been too long since he'd held the bow in his hands, he thought as he drew level with the targets. Unless you counted what had happened in the dream. Of course in the dream he'd had his own arrows, not the shiny plastic ones they used here. He'd brought some of his own but a lot of them had broken or gotten lost, and he didn't want to waste what was left. He'd have to find a way to make some more. It was dark by the time he raised his bow, but that didn't matter. He had good night vision; the best way to hunt was often in the dark. The first arrow slipped off the string and he cursed quietly to himself - the fancy arrows didn't sing to him the way his own did, they didn't sit well against the string he'd made himself out of zebra gut. He lifted the bow again, compensating for the arrow as best he could. He let it fly, and at almost the same time a sea breeze flew up from the ocean and hit him in the back, rushing through his hair and around his limbs, like an otherworldly message. The arrow hit the centre of the target and he lowered the bow, breathing unsteadily. For a moment... he could have been sure he had heard a voice on the wind. |